


Laman's Sin

by AJ_Stevens



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Aiel War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Stevens/pseuds/AJ_Stevens
Summary: The Aiel War, in all its gory detail.





	1. A Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, a first draft. I'll post chapter updates as and when I get them on the page. I invite you all to share your thoughts as I go.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, and Age long past, a wind rose above a network of baked, cracked gullies. The wind was not the beginning, there are neither Beginnings nor endings to the turning of The Wheel of Time. But it was _a_ beginning.

Westward, the wind blew, howling above the desolate scrubland inhabited only by creatures hardy enough or foolish enough to brave its unrelenting assault. The wind crashed against precipitous mountains, moaning its anguish as it was tossed upwards towards dizzying icy heights. It danced and swirled above the snow-capped peaks which clawed at the sky, exuberant in their youth. The wind tumbled down the western slopes of the mountains, whistling the promise of an unseasonal chill delivered unto softer lands.

Olla rested her head against a wheel almost as tall as she was, glad of the meagre shade the garish wagon provided. A shiver wracked her as gust of icy wind battered her failing body, as surely as her conscience battered her failing soul.

Children were dying.

She had known there would be sacrifice, that the way would not be easy. The Aes Sedai had told her as much. Yet she had impressed upon Olla the importance of this task; the fate of the world itself rested upon the contents of the wagon at her back and their deliverance to the other side of the peaks looming to her right. She dared not look too closely at the mountains they were duty-bound to cross, for the task was assuredly impossible.

The summer had taken its toll on her people. Hunger and thirst stalked them in mimicry of the carrion eaters patrolling the skies. The people of this desperate new world had preyed upon them, delivering horrors the Aes Sedai had once shielded them from. Some had been lost to the lure of steel, they tracked their progress from a distance even now, pointed metal teeth bared. She stared into that distance, as though it might hold the answers to the malaise which so afflicted those men and women.

A test, she told herself. Her people were being tested for the time ahead. The Aes Sedai had told her this journey would harden her people, and yet Olla could not conceive of how to harden herself.

These days, her steps were heavy. As though she was dragging the bodies of the lost children on invisible chains. She leaned forward as she walked, sometimes, pulling against that imagined weight. How could she countenance such a thing, to deliver such torment upon her people?

She was not long for this world, she knew. That the Jenn Aiel should fail the Aes Sedai threatened to break what brittle spirit remained to her.

A pair of worn boots appeared before her. She couldn’t remember sitting down, and she lacked the strength or the inclination to raise her head. But she knew those boots. Blood welled anew from cracked, stinging lips as she smiled. ‘Jaramin, my heart. Your return is most welcome,’ she croaked.

Jaramin stooped to help her to her feet with arms which retained their strength despite recent woes. ‘Olla, my love. The Light has delivered a respite to our people. Can you walk just a littler further? It is not so far.’

She nodded and pressed her forehead to that of one of the emaciated oxen harnessed to the wagon. ‘Did you hear that, my friend?’ she whispered. ‘The way is not far.’ She pulled on the reins as gently as she could manage. The oxen brayed in protest, but the wagon lurched into motion. There was no command to be passed down the line; the movement of the lead wagon was signal enough.

She entered the small town in Jaramin’s arms, no longer able to summon the energy nor the will to take another step in the punishing summer heat.

A short time later she sat in a rudimentary stone building which appeared to serve as the chief’s residence, cradling a leather waterskin like a babe in arms. Her stomach protested with the burden of being somewhat full for the first time in weeks, yet she felt the slow return of vitality coursing through her.

A stout man entered, warmth spreading across his face as his blue-eyed gaze found her. ‘I see you are recovering, mistress. This is well. I am informed you have quite a journey ahead of you.’

‘That is so. Tell me, have you ever ventured beyond the peaks?’

The man’s face pulled down, and he averted his gaze. ‘Alas, those who have attempted the journey have never returned. I cannot say what awaits you; I would only implore you to reconsider your course.’

‘Your words hold wisdom, I have no doubt. Yet honour binds us.’

The man nodded, as though he had never really expected to change her mind. ‘You did not come this far to only come this far. We don’t have much, mistress, and the protection of even meagre walls sees our little town burgeon into something more. We cannot spare enough to sustain your onward journey, I fear.’

Olla narrowed her eyes. ‘You would put forth a proposition nonetheless.’

The man nodded. ‘I would be a fool to ignore the extra pairs of hands you bring with you, and I am not ignorant of your skill in tending the land. Dig our wells and plant our crops. Build for us a future, and you go over the mountain passes with as much as you can carry.’

Olla glanced at Jaramin, who gave the smallest of nods. ‘It is an even exchange. We accept, once my people are sufficiently recovered to complete what you ask of them.’

‘Then we have an accord. I shall leave you to your rest and recovery, mistress.’

As he turned to go, Olla brought him up short. ‘I would have your name, friend.’

‘Of course. My name is Tavalin Damodred.’

Olla nodded slowly. ‘May you always find water and shade, Tavalin Damodred.’

*

Tanela emerged from the glass columns and fell to her hands and knees, sucking in ragged breaths. The bitter knowledge of where the Aiel came from threatened to overwhelm her still. She spat, eager to rid herself of a sickly filth which clung to her very being.

Pushing herself up onto unsteady feet, she regarded the slope which would carry her from Rhuidean. The Wise Ones there awaited her return. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand, and stamped her way through the abandoned city. Well, she was a Wise One herself now, and the others would know her anger. How could they live with the _toh_ their forebears had forced upon them?

By the time she reached the camp, she had prepared a long list of questions she would have answered, and choice words the others would hear. When she looked into the eyes of those gathered, however, the words would not come. They knew, and they bore the burden.

Pride swelled from the woman directly before her. ‘You understand, then.’

Tanela bowed her head. ‘Yes, Wise One. I have _toh_.’

‘Jalin will suffice,’ the woman replied, unable to hide her smile.

Tanela covered her face, tears leaking from her eyes. ‘They were so _weak_.’

Jalin merely nodded. ‘And so you see the truth in the purpose of the Three-fold Land.’

Tanela’s mouth fell open. ‘The Aes Sedai, she said it would harden our people,’ she whispered. Her ancestor was insufficient, but how could she know the tempering of the Aiel would take generations, rather than mere months. The Three-fold Land was a fitting punishment. There was no _toh_. Heat rose in her face at her own foolishness.

She scrubbed at her face, wiping away the tears. A month past, these women would have seen her counting stones, or relaying messages a word at a time, should she have displayed such weakness. Now though, she felt a bond with these women; she somehow knew in her heart that every one of them had stood where she stood now, and cried their tears.

‘I can’t believe we had to rely on some wetlander chief to give us water and shade,’ she sniffed.

Ancient Lenni’s head snapped around, bright blue eyes pinning Tanela where she stood. ‘Did this chief have a name?’

‘Tavalin Damodred,’ she replied simply. She would never forget that name.

‘Damodred. You’re quite sure, girl?’

Tanela drew herself up and glared defiance back at the white haired woman.

‘Very well, very well. Gather the clan chiefs,’ Lenni continued, addressing all those gathered. She gazed down towards the city, apparently lost in thought, before she spoke once more. ‘We have great _toh_ , I fear. A gift will be required. A gift of unsurpassed worth. A gift to last an Age.’


	2. Dragon's Dagger

_The year 975 NE (New Era)_

Eldred grunted as he strained against his leather harness. The wagon full of copper ore lurched into reluctant motion. He wiped a dirty forearm across his damp forehead, succeeding only in smearing dust further across his grime-darkened face. Grit entered his mouth and he spat what little saliva he could muster at the end of a day working the Dragon’s Dagger.

He was too old for the truly dangerous work of course; too big and clumsy to squeeze into the crevices which harboured the lucrative copper veins which kept the town alive. He was one of the lucky ones. Survival beyond his eleventh name day put him in the minority of the children who were forced into the back-breaking, shin-scraping work in the mining complex.

He hauled his wagon up the slope towards the smelting house, fingering the small bone which hung on a leather cord around his neck. He should be bitter, he knew, but he’d seen what bitterness did to a man, when the only escape was to drown in a bottle of oosquai. Better to make the best of what the Pattern had provided, he always said. Another few years, and he could have his own crew, and once he was giving the orders life would be just fine.

Arriving at the smelting house, he parked his wagon in the yard and wriggled from his harness. He groaned as the door opened and a wizened face appeared. ‘Good evening, Master Kellavin.’

Blue eyes narrowed, one of them with a cloudy, milky tint. ‘Don’t you _Master_ me, Haldevwin, you scrawny little goat-kisser.’ He raised his chin to the wagon. ‘That yours? Doesn’t look full to me. You trying to knock off early?’

Eldred looked over his shoulder and sucked his teeth. ‘Sure felt heavy enough dragging it up that hill,’ he replied, adding what he hoped was a companionable laugh.

Jadwil Kellavin shuffled over to the wagon, his back bent from a full life working the mines. He peered inside and cocked a brow at Eldred. ‘It ain’t full. Can’t punch your bloody card if it ain’t full, now, can I?’

Eldred fancied he caught the hint of a smug smile tugging at the elder’s lips. ‘Come on, Jadwil. It’s my last haul of the day. You punched my card last week when I brought a wagon with half as much. It ain’t my fault if this batch of urchins aren’t up to it.’

‘Last week you hadn’t taken me for a week’s coin, you filthy milk drinker. Go on with you. You don’t want to be hauling that thing up here when it’s dark.’

‘I won that coin fair and square,’ Eldred protested, shooting the man an affronted look.

‘I may have a bad eye, lad, but I got me a good nose. And I’m telling you, I was swindled. If it weren’t you, it was that horse tickling friend of yours, the Fiallin lad.’

Eldred couldn’t keep a straight face as Jadwil delivered a withering assessment of Urron. ‘Can only speak for myself, Jadwil. I’m as honest a player as they come. Maybe I can speak to Urron, see if he was up to no good. So you can punch my card and I’ll be on my way. Go straight to him, I will.’

‘You just bring me a full wagon, lad. And see that you make sure to wheel it all the way back down the hill. Some bad folk round here; wouldn’t pay to be taking your eye off that wagon for even a second, I’d say.’

Eldred groaned, but he went. Old Jadwil would be naming him darkfriend if he protested much longer. Wheeling a full wagon back down the hill was at least as strenuous as pulling it uphill. His boots skidded on the switchback path, threatening to yank him over the edge to an early death.

It was dark when he returned to his bunk; the workers’ tenements were basic but they were dry and warm, even in winter. He’d only added a small amount of ore to his earlier haul; the wagon was as good as full the first time. He also had to reimburse Jadwil with half of his winnings to finally get his card punched. He’d then taken an ear-bashing from his crew boss about tardiness. Complaining about old man Jadwil would only have made matters worse; at least he still had half of his winnings.

He fell face-first into his bed, jerking as his shoulders seized and cramped. He closed his eyes and pulled ratty blankets over his face. ‘It’s just a day,’ he whispered to himself. ‘If you had a bad day, remember the Pattern will weave a good one to balance it.’ He quoted his matron from the orphanage he was raised in. A woman with a tired face but kind eyes who did her best to prepare her lads and lasses for the travails of life in the mines.

The reminder helped, some, and he swung his legs from his bunk before standing and arcing his back with a wince. He scrubbed his face with the water in the basin and changed his shirt. Urron would be in his favourite tavern, the aptly named _Glittering Shaft_. The ale was the worst kind of swill, but there would be a game he could embroil himself in.

He plucked his cloak from the hook and stepped outside into driving rain. He pulled his hood up and strode head-down into the storm, the mud of the street threatening to suck the boots from his feet. He arrived at the tavern and nodded to Galt, a bald-headed thug who had a knack for getting hit on a nose which was spread across his face. A meaty arm barred his way as Galt nodded at Eldred’s feet. ‘No boots inside,’ came the punch-drunk rumble.

Eldred rolled his eyes and threw out his arms. ‘Really, Galt? Master Veldron trying to keep things looking respectable, is he? There’s more chance of something crawling into my stockings and eating my feet alive than there is of a little mud making the floor any dirtier.’

Galt shrugged as if Eldred’s argument was nothing to him, and maybe it was. ‘Don’t matter. Orders is orders, right? Master Veldron says no boots, then there’s no boots.’

Sighing, Eldred tried a different tack. ‘Galt, these are my best boots. You wouldn’t want some fish licker taking my best boots, would you?’

Galt nodded for a moment, before realisation dawned on his face. ‘Oh yeah? Well if them’s your best boots, why you wearing them in all this mud? Get them off.’

‘Fine, fine. You got me there, Galt. Too smart for me by half, I’d say.’ He kicked his boots off and left them by the door. ‘But if you see anyone trying to take them, you come get me, all right?’

‘Maybes. Could be a busy night. Something tells me I’ll need to knock a few heads together.’

‘All right, Galt. You just remember to dodge.’

He stepped inside and was warmed by the cacophony of familiar noise which greeted him. Deep, rumbling laughs reverberated around the common room; a joke at someone’s expense no doubt. The higher-pitched shouts of serving maids straining to be heard above the din. The clang of the kitchens fighting to drown out all else.

His stockings were scant protection against the ale-soaked floor; he chose not to look down as he waddled across the room like a man with a serious stomach complaint. Sure enough, Urron was at a table with a game going on. Eldred clapped him on the shoulder and forced a smile. ‘Been forced to sit this one out already?’ The stack of coins on the table was small.

His friend shook his head. With Urron’s gaunt visage, it gave the impression of a particularly morose bird looking for fish in a river. ‘Not tonight. Seems old Jadwil put the word out that me and you have some sleight of hand going on. The lads won’t let me play.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! They all know Jadwil is nothing but a bad loser. I understand the crew bosses falling in with that old wart, but these lads here should know better.’ He scowled at his supposed friends, only brightening when Saralle appeared to take his order. He flashed her a smile and ordered an ale.

‘I don’t know why you bother,’ Urron sighed in his usual dour, monotone. ‘She’s far too good for you and you know it. Even worse, she knows it too.’

‘I was just being pleasant,’ Eldred retorted, sinking onto a free wooden stool which, it turned out, had one leg shorter than the other two. He rocked back and forth as he watched the game, scoffing each time a player made a mistake. That earned him plenty of scowls, but not a place in the game.

‘Heard Jadwil had you doing an extra run,’ Urron offered. It was hard to know if he was commiserating, or whether his grim expression was merely an extension of his natural demeanour.

‘He did. The more I think on it, Urron, the more I think someone should teach him a lesson.’

Ullor blinked slowly. ‘You don’t always have to be that someone, you know.’

Eldred cracked his first genuine smile of the evening. ‘Of course not. But on this occasion, I’m the best man for the job.’

‘You always say that. Always,’ Urron complained.

‘Finish your ale and get your boots on. We have work to do.’

The lines on Urron’s forehead deepened as he glanced down at his feet. ‘What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I be wearing my boots? The floor in here is revolting.’

Eldred glanced around and realised his mistake. Sometimes he didn’t give people enough credit. ‘Add Galt to the list, but that’s for another night.’

*** 

Eldred found himself at the back of the _Glittering Shaft_ , hunched against the wall of a stable which looked anything but. He glared over his shoulder at his lanky companion. ‘Do you need to be so close? What is this? Are you trying to climb up on my shoulders? You’re tall enough!’

‘Sorry,’ came the dry reply from Urron. ‘I was only looking.’ The hood on his cloak sat oddly on his head, meaning water splashed off his protruding nose.

‘Let me do the looking. You just do as I say and this will go to plan.’

‘You can hardly claim to be the smart one after you just got pranked by Galt,’ Urron pointed out.

Eldred couldn’t argue with that logic. ‘Just shut up and listen. We’re going in there.’ He pointed to the coup where Master Veldron kept his chickens. From the look of the food served in the tavern he was expecting scrawny, sickly looking things, but that was fine; he wasn’t going to eat them. He looked over his shoulder at Urron. ‘Did you get the sacks?’

His friend held up the two cloth sacks, sodden now with rainwater. Eldred nodded. ‘Good. Hand me one. If you see Crinny coming out of the kitchen, we run.’

Urron snorted. ‘Some plan. You think I’d stand there and let her take a swing at me with that rolling pin?’

‘All right. I’m only looking out for you.’ He shuddered. He’d seen the tavern’s cook swing that rolling pin. Even Galt seemed scared of her, and Eldred was sure Galt would march headlong into almost any fight. It was worth the risk to see the look on Jadwil’s face tomorrow.

Catching chickens was more difficult than he expected. He emerged from the coup with cuts stinging his hands and blood soaking through into the knees of his now mud-caked breeches. Urron seemed to have escaped the worst of it. Stupid birds probably thought he was one of them with that nose.

Ultimately though, he’d been the victor. Two bulging sacks full of affronted birds was what he came for, and now he was marching along the road back towards the smelting house, Urron in tow.

‘I still don’t see why we had to catch all these chickens. If anyone finds us, we’ll be working double shifts until next year,’ Urron complained.

Eldred rolled his eyes. ‘I told you. Jadwil hates birds. You’d do well to listen to me more often, Urron. I’m observant, you see. It’s why we won that game of cards in the first place.’

‘Wasn’t it because I had four knaves?’ Urron offered.

‘Well that helped, but I knew Jadwil would get greedy. Anyway, these birds are going to frighten the breeches right off him.’

‘He’s going to know it’s us.’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s already intent on making my life a misery. You know what Matron used to say… Treat people the way they treat you.’

‘Wasn’t it… Treat people the way you’d like to be treated yourself?’

Eldred waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s the same thing.’

‘It is?’ Urron shot him a puzzled look.

‘It’s close enough. Now, you make sure you keep quiet when we get into the smelting house. You know how clumsy you can be.’ He ignored the sigh from Urron, his eyes peering into the downpour for anyone coming in the opposite direction. Trying to talk his way out of carrying two sacks of chickens around town would be an achievement even for him.

Jadwil would be working the late shift, sorting the ores for smelting and recording the hauls in the books. Eldred and Urron crept into the yard where he’d dropped of his haul earlier that evening.

‘Why are we creeping?’ Urron hissed from behind him in a whisper.

‘Why are you whispering if you’re asking me why we’re creeping?’ he replied. With the noise of the rain rattling on the tin roof of the smelting house, even the constant angry clucking of the bagged chickens would be drowned out.

Lantern light shone from the bubbled glass window of Jadwil’s office. Not that Eldred needed it; he knew every inch of this yard. His heart raced with nervous excitement as his hand hovered next to the latch on the rickety door. Fighting down the urge to laugh, he nodded at Urron and readied the sack.

He lifted the latch and upended the sack into the gap in the door. He heard the strangled cry from within and then he was running, cloak flaring behind him as he sprinted through the puddles in the yard, shoulders shaking with laughter. Urron loped past him, making use of his long legs to propel him through the deluge, back towards the tenements.

He awoke to Urron’s long, avian face peering down at him and he gave a start. ‘Do you have to do that? I’ve warned you about watching me sleep.’ He rubbed the sleep from his puffy eyes.

‘I wasn’t. I’ve only been here a few seconds.’

Eldred glared at his friend before his face split into a grin. ‘Light, I can’t wait to see old Jadwil’s face this morning. That’s if he even managed to make it out of his office.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Urron hissed, hopping from one foot to the other and peering over his shoulder.

‘Don’t be so paranoid, nobody’s listening.’

‘Well, maybe they don’t have to,’ Urron grumbled. ‘He’s going to know it was us. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll probably pin the blame on us anyway.’

‘Exactly.’

‘We should be careful anyway. Don’t want to be seen to be getting ideas above our station. We need to keep our heads down for a few weeks.’

Eldred blew his cheeks out as he dressed. ‘Why go to all that trouble if we can’t celebrate it a bit?’

‘Because accidents happen in mines, and nobody is going to miss the likes of you.’

Eldred shot his friend his best grin. ‘You’d miss me, I think. You know, grief would suit your face. It’s almost your natural expression.’

He clapped Urron on the back. ‘Come on, I’ve been working on the new girl in the kitchens. With any luck she’s done as I asked and saved us the best cuts.’ He was oblivious to Urron shaking his head in dismay behind him.

 


	3. Daes Dae'mar

King Laman Damodred nodded to acknowledge the gallery – the merest inclination of his head - as he strode from the practice ground. Once in the shade of the corridor, he stood to allow his manservant, Balor to pat his face dry with a kerchief. Sweat sprang forth to mar his features once more as he marched towards his private chambers.

His body held an invigorating ache from his duel with Kammil. The swordmaster had, as ever, fulfilled his role with the utmost diligence, providing enough of a test to strain Laman, without landing too many telling blows; it wouldn’t do for the King to be undermined in such a way. No, Kammil knew what he was about, and the onlookers once again would leave in the knowledge that the King was a match for Cairhien’s best swordsman.

Balor deftly stepped around him to push open the plain, blockish double doors which led to his chambers. The reception room awaited, bathed in mid-morning light; a square rug bearing a stern geometrical pattern was the only nod towards frivolity.

As was proper, Balor had waited at the threshold to the chambers. Without turning, Laman waved the man in with a deft flick of his fingers, holding out his arms to allow Balor to slide his coat from his shoulders. ‘Lukewarm, I should think, Balor.’

‘Right away, Sire,’ the man replied with a precise bow.

He was soon sinking down into the basin of water in his private bath chamber, the surface slick with oils to re-energise and relax him. The water stole the ache from his arms and legs and he closed his eyes, thoughts turning to matter of the court. House Riatin troubled him of late; more so than usual. He was King of course, but he was also head of House Damodred. In the latter capacity he was obliged perform the political dance to keep Galldrian in his proper place. The rumours from Jurene warranted further investigation, but it needed a delicate hand that neither of his brothers possessed. His wretched cousin, Barthanes, met the requirements, but Light take him before he furthered his cousin’s voracious ambition.

He rang the bell on the table and Balor attended him, eyes properly averted; to look upon the King so carried a death penalty. Wrapped in towelling, Laman made his way to his dressing room. ‘The new Sharan silks, man,’ he instructed Balor. Yes, that should suffice for today’s meeting.

*

The doors to the Greater Room of the Court were pushed open before him. He waited as the Herald announced King Laman, first of his name. Protector and High Seat of the Resplendent City and Great Nation of Cairhien.

Laman glared at the man. He would speak to the man’s superior; too flowery by far. The man paled under the King’s ict stare, swallowing as he backed from the room with a bow far deeper than was necessary. The hubbub in the room had died, starting up again as Laman was presented with a glass of claret wine.

He’d grown adept at surveying a room with a glance. Faces present and absent, who was conversing with whom. The turning down of a mouth, or a surreptitious glance. He saw them all, lodging them in his mind should they need to dredged up at an opportune time.

It was but a moment before he’d registered the affront of Galldrian’s absence, and he worked to keep his face impassive. The man grew bold and the gathered nobility would expect a firm response from their King. Galldrian had instead sent his fop of a cousin, Toram. The man stood half a head taller than most of the men, and attracted the covetous stares of a number of the eligible ladies in the room, and a good number of the ineligible ones at that.

Leave the fool to his dalliances; Laman had little time for such nonsense. A wife, or even a mistress, was a weakness in his eyes, a chink in the impenetrable armour of his rule. As well jump into bed with the Dark One himself.

The only woman he gave a generous measure of his time was his advisor, Niande Moorwyn. The plump Aes Sedai stood apart, ostensibly watching the room down her sharp nose, but Laman noted her gaze lingering on Lady Arilyn Dhulaine more often than was natural. Even Aes Sedai were human, given to their baser instincts, and this Laman used to his advantage. Niande knew her place, though Laman knew not to push too hard; the Amyrlin, Tamra Ospenya, was a formidable woman whose wrath could threaten the privilege of position Laman had worked so hard to secure for himself.

He strode across to the woman and inclined his head. ‘Niande Sedai, I bid you good morning.’

As ever, the Aes Sedai spent a moment inspecting him, as if looking for some change in him, before she returned his greeting. ‘A good morning to you also, Highness. How may I serve?’

Laman affected a humourless smile, though the notion of the Aes Sedai actually serving anyone beyond themselves was indeed humorous. ‘A trifling matter, I should think. What news from the west?’ He knew Niande’s network of informants was as extensive as his own, and less likely to fall prey to the machinations of House Riatin.

‘The west, you say?’ A flicker of the woman’s eyes told Laman that her net had been cast elsewhere. Curious. ‘Beyond our western border, I hear Queen Morgase continues to consolidate her power. Within the border, all is quiet.’

Laman nodded. His nephew continued to disappoint, despite Laman’s careful attempts to influence public opinion within Andor. The Trakand girl had proved wily and wilful in equal measure. The situation grew desperate and only served to further embolden House Riatin. The minor houses were turning their heads, he knew; it would be a matter of time before some of his more powerful allies began to listen to the overtures of Galldrian unless he acted swiftly to reassert control.

It would be useless to canvas the Aes Sedai for aid. The union of Cairhien and Andor was not on the White Tower’s agenda. Indeed, such an act would likely be seen as a threat to their grip on the lands they purported to serve. Laman was no Hawkwing, and had to desire to rule in the same manner as the High King, but the Aes Sedai had long memories.

‘My thanks, Niande. I would appreciate your bringing news of anything untoward in western Cairhien to my attention.’

The woman’s round face tightened. ‘I am moved to remind you once again, Highness, that my role is merely to advise on matters of state.’

Laman nodded in reply. ‘Of course. Good day, Aes Sedai.’ He moved towards the assembled lords and ladies of the court. Niande would do as he asked, albeit with a gentle reminder when the time came.

He accepted the hand of the Lady Arilyn. ‘My Lady. May the Light shine upon you this day. Did my man contact you regarding the latest batch of Sharan silks? It may be the finest cut I’ve seen yet…’

***

The assembled lords and ladies began to filter out from the gathering as the midday repast approached. Those of the lesser houses were first, leaving the larger houses to discuss more important matters of state without fear of upsetting the social strata. Eventually, those present were unanimously of House Damodred; once again Laman had emerged from the thorn bush with nary a prick to mar his visage.

He clapped his hands. ‘My lords and ladies. I thank you for your attendance this morning. I shall speak with you in due course to distill what we have learned today.’ He would do it of course, however the true insight would be gleaned from the servants who moved invisible among the great and the good. Laman chose them personally. Those with an affinity for the Great Game rose quickly; those without fell just as sharply.

He forced a smile onto his face, as warm as he could muster. ‘For now, I would seek council with my brothers. For the Tree and the Crown!’ He inclined his head as the words were proudly spoken back to him.

A fresh cup of wine was placed into his hand and he strode to the window overlooking the courtyard bearing _Avendoraldera_ , child to the famed _Avendasora_ somewhere in the Aiel Waste. It was said the tree possessed a calming quality, but he hadn’t felt the qualities for some years. His physician had suggested he’d become inured to the tree’s effects after spending so many days as a child beneath its boughs.

Footsteps rang on the polished floor and he turned to look upon his brothers. Proud, regal Moressin, his chest puffed out from beneath his stripes, and contemptuous, cruel Aldecain, eyes always shifting from underneath his perpetually pinched brow. At their side and a step behind, his cousin, Barthanes.

The iron tang of blood filled Laman’s mouth as he bit down on his tongue. He swallowed the rage which called to him to draw his sword and open his fool cousin’s torso. ‘Cousin, I believe I sought council with my brothers here.’

The man sketched a sycophantic bow. ‘Quite so, Highness. Yet I believe I can be of some help with regard to your current predicament regarding House Riatin.’

Laman schooled his face to stillness; a trifling matter for one such as he. ‘A gracious offer, Barthanes. Once again, you put your country ahead of yourself.’ Barthanes licked his lips. Good, at least he realised he’d overstepped his mark. ‘As you appear to know, we have rumours that House Riatin have been agitating banditry in the east of the our territory; the merchants will only tolerate so much risk on their sojourns into the Waste. If you would truly aid House Damodred’s grip on the Sun Throne, I suggest you take a company of House Guards to Selean and provider a reminder of the King’s Justice.’

Barthanes flushed red, bowing once again. ‘Of course, Highness. I’ll require some time to gather an appropriate force.’

‘I shall speak to Captain Mavlindred personally to have your force assembled today. You should have no problem leaving on the morrow, yes?’

Sweat pricked on the fool’s face as he affected a shaky nodding retreat from the room, almost running through the open door.

He fixed his attention on the two remaining men. He was pleased to see both wore approving smiles. ‘Brothers, we have a situation in the west of the country. House Riatin has discovered something in the vicinity of Jurene, according to rumour. I will seek to uncover the truth of the matter, but we should be prepared for any eventuality.’

Aldecain’s response was predictable. ‘You play the Great Game better than any, brother, but if House Riatin has fortune herself on their side, then subtlety must be suspended for a time to face the threat directly. The bite of steel in the darkness would provide a message even Galldrian wouldn’t dare ignore.’

Laman pursed his lips. ‘There is small chance all three of us would survive the ensuing exchange of knives, hidden or no. Are you willing to accept you may be the first to fall, brother?’ He stared into the eyes of his youngest sibling, watching for any hint of ambition beyond what was proper.

Moressin interjected. ‘What of an assault on the Lion Throne? A renewal of hostilities with Andor would unite the people behind House Damodred, and House Riatin would be forced to fall under the King’s Command by law.’

Laman turned once again to stare at the regal tree adorning the courtyard without. ‘An interesting proposition, brother. It has merit, but carries risk. Andor is strong.’

‘We have Taringail in the right place to incite treachery from within,’ offered Moressin.

Laman scoffed. ‘The fool boy is firmly in the palm of the Trakand girl it seems. He would be of little use to us. Nor would I make the same mistake of underestimating Queen Morgase.’

‘You fear her, brother?’ Laman didn’t have to turn to witness the frown he knew Aldecain wore.

He sighed. The pair were too bloody-minded to consider any eventuality which didn’t involve internecine bloodshed. ‘Thank you for your council, brothers. I shall ruminate upon your words and inform you of my intentions.’

Their boots echoed on the floor for a time and then he was alone. Sucking his teeth, he pondered the situation. No, blood could not be the answer. If House Riatin had stumbled upon something ostentatious, he would indulge in this game of oneupmanship. He stared at the tree again and smiled. Yes, a truly kingly display was required.


	4. The White Tower

Marya Somares adjusted her grey shawl on her shoulders once again. It had been some time since she was moved to don it within the corridors of the White Tower itself, but today she needed to make an impression. Assuming, that was, the woman she intended to meet would even notice the perhaps unnecessary accoutrement. Ridiculous it may be, but traversing the quarters of an Ajah not her own, the garment gave her some comfort.

The Brown quarters were, on the face of it, not noticeably different to those of the Grey, if one only used their eyes. The smell of dust and leather permeated the air, reminding Marya of her frequent trips to the Tower library as an Accepted to fetch and carry books to Brown sisters too preoccupied to make the journey themselves. The quarters of her own Ajah were hardly as frivolous as those of the Greens - darting this way and that with their gaggle of hard-eyed Warders in tow - but by comparison the Brown quarters appeared abandoned. It was a unique sort of quiet, unsurpassed even by the isolation of the wild, which at least held the chatter of birds and animals. Marya had never ventured to the Aiel Waste, but she suspected it might be the only place which could match the Brown Ajah quarters in its quietude.

A clatter, a curse, and a stifled giggle from around the curve in the corridor reached her, causing her thin face to crinkle into a frown. Increasing her pace, she saw the wide-eyed heads of two Accepted in their white dresses whip towards her. A pile of books lay all around the taller of the two, who was experiencing a sneezing fit as dust from the books swirled around her. The shorter of the two had schooled her face to stillness, all stately calm as she rested her chin on the stack of neat books she cradled in her arms.

Marya strode closer, looming over both of them as she regarded them both with exemplary calm. ‘Siuan Sanche, I should have known from the colour of your cursing that it would be you. If you are ever to be raised to the shawl, child, you must learn to guard your tongue. It just isn’t becoming of Aes Sedai.’

The fool girl had the temerity to scowl, bending to retrieve the books from the pile. Marya wove a thin thread of air, snapping the book closed on Siuan’s fingers. ‘I am talking to you, child. The fool books can wait. You may be newly raised to Accepted, but perhaps a penance to remind you of proper behaviour in the presence of sisters is required?’

Marya had long accepted that this one would never be truly cowed, but the girl made the effort to dip her head and nod, even if her jaw was clenched. ‘No, Aes Sedai.’

‘And you, Moiraine Damodred,’ she began, rounding on the smaller woman. The girl was a picture of Aes Sedai, all calm and feigned deference. ‘I suspect some sort of novice prank at play. Will you ever grow out of this silliness? Where are you taking those books anyway?’

‘Back to the library, Aes Sedai,’ Moiraine returned.

‘At whose request?’

‘Verin Sedai.’

‘Very good. Hurry along now, the Brown sisters do not want to be disturbed from their work by the foolishness of Accepted.’

She moved past them, allowing herself a small smile. With the correct guidance, the two would go far. It was only a shame that neither were likely to choose the Grey, though she allowed that they weren’t exactly Grey material. The Tairen girl could start an argument in an empty room, and the Damodred girl… a thought occurred to her and she turned around.

‘Moiraine, what can you tell me of your uncle?’

‘Which one, Aes Sedai?’

‘The King.’

The girl’s serene mask faltered, though not by much. ‘I hold no love for my uncles, Aes Sedai. My father’s brothers are skilled in the Great Game, and they use that skill for more ill than good. I belong to the White Tower now.’

‘Do you receive word from Cairhien?’

‘Only what I learn through my studies on matters of state, Marya Sedai.’

‘Very well. Thank you, child.’

Accepted weren’t encouraged to lie, but they were still able. Marya was an excellent reader of people and the girl had spoken true.

As she was about to round the curve of the corridor again, she glanced over her shoulder at Siuan picking up the fallen books and wove another thread of air, spilling Moiraine’s books from her arms. The girl’s squeak was most satisfying.

 

*

 

Her frustration grew as the door she sought evaded her. Unlike the quarters of the other Ajahs, there was almost nothing to differentiate one door from the next; a small pile of books awaiting transit back to the library was the only defining feature of many. Her memory of this place was hardly fresh given how seldom she visited this part of the Tower.

She eventually found her destination, the door marred by a subtle dent just above the handle. She knocked and waited and knocked again, eventually cursing the absent-mindedness of the woman she wished to see. Opening the door uninvited could be dangerous; even the Browns were known to set wards against unwanted visitors.

Knocking a final time, she exhaled with relief as a reply of ‘Come along!’ sounded from behind the door. She slipped inside to find Verin Mathwin engrossed in a book as thick as Marya’s arm. She waited for a long moment before coughing into her hand.

Verin looked up as if surprised to see her standing there. ‘Marya,’ she said, blinking. ‘How pleasant to see you, if somewhat unexpected. Is there something I can help you with? Please, sit.’

Marya shuffled around piles of books and curios littering the floor of the room, noting that all available sitting space was taken by books, scrolls, manuscripts and all manner of other things Marya couldn’t place. ‘I’ll stand, thank you. There is something I came to speak to you about, however.’

Verin smiled, brushing crumbs of cheese from an ink-stained sleeve. ‘Of course, what is it?’

‘I received word from Niande Moorwyn.’ When she was met with a blank look, she went on. ‘King Laman’s advisor.’

‘Ah, yes, Niande. The library in Cairhien is comparable to the Tower’s own. I should dearly love to pay another visit.’

‘Yes, well. Niande mentioned that tensions between Cairhien and Andor grow. Light knows the Cairhienin love to scheme and Morgase is young. The girl shows signs of growing into a formidable queen, but the young are impetuous. I fear Laman has long had his eyes upon the Lion Throne, and he apparently grows frustrated by Taringail’s thwarted attempts to gain influence over Morgase.

‘Furthermore, Laman faces internal competition from House Riatin. My fear is that Laman may try something precipitous to bring the other nobles behind him. Something like war with Andor. I must say, Niande holds little sway over the king.’ She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice at the last, though Verin didn’t appear to have noticed.

‘Andor is strong but Laman is crafty. Should Cairhien somehow manage to gain the Lion Throne, he could prove a significant challenge to the Amyrlin’s authority. The legend of Artur Hawkwing is still something to aspire to for many men.’

Marya realised she was babbling; indeed she’d said more than she’d intended. ‘Yes… Niande mentioned that Laman had asked her to pay attention to the west of Cairhien, towards the Andoran border. I consulted our maps and the only thing of note in that region is the town of Jurene, if indeed it can even be called a town. I don’t know what Laman’s interest could be, but I thought it diligent to inquire whether there may be anything of historical note in the area.’

Verin said nothing for a long moment, as if deep in thought. Marya thought she may have to give the Brown a jolt when Verin’s eyes refocused with a small smile. ‘The west, you said, near the Andoran border. Coremanda after the Breaking, Shandalle during the Free Years. Artur Hawkwing was of Shandalle. Could that have any significance?’

Marya bit her lip in concentration. ‘It’s possible, but no revelation comes to me. I fear I must think on this some more.’

Verin heaved herself from her chair as though her back was stiff from sitting for too long with her head in a book, which Marya thought was quite possible, probable even, of a Brown. Verin frowned at the piles of books and rolled up papers. There was no system Marya could discern for keeping things in order, though one surely existed; anything else would be quite unlike a Brown sister. ‘I believe I have some detailed maps somewhere, historical and current. Something on the history of Shandalle and Coremanda may also be of use.’

Marya left the woman to her search, watching her carefully shift a number of delicate looking tomes which looked liable to breaking apart. She glanced at the spine of the book Verin had open, tilting her head to read it. _Of Wolves and Men, by Harathin Meddor_. She kept her face still, but why in the Light was Verin reading about wolves, of all things. Browns really were detached from the present.

‘A request from Rina Hafden,’ Verin said, closing the book with a flow of air. She was holding two books and a rolled up map. She was Aes Sedai again for a brief moment, imperious and almost intimidating. Marya thought it best to avoid any further inquiry.

She took the books, surprised at their weight. ‘Thank you, Verin. I’ll be sure to return these as soon as I work my way through them. In the mean time, if anything comes to mind about what may be of interest in the west of Cairhien…’

‘I will give it some thought, Marya.’

Marya forced her face to remain calm; she knew a dismissal when she heard one. She began the long journey back to her own rooms. House Riatin may be desperate for power, but trying to re-establish the nation of Shandalle would be a folly, regardless of its proud history. Neither Andor nor Cairhien would stand for such a thing. Perhaps it was nothing more than a feint; the Cairhienin were known for such misdirection in their Great Game. She hefted the books and straightened her back not looking forward to the long night of reading which awaited her.


	5. The Feast of Lights

King Laman Damodred faced away from the woman on the rough pallet and pulled the rough shirt over his head. It itched, but any display of opulence would be quite dangerous in the Foregate. He adjusted the mask which obscured half of his face, satisfied it hadn’t slipped. The girl would live.

He finished dressing and pushed out of the warped doorway, down rickety stairs. Nodding to the mistress of the house, he stepped out into the chaos of the Foregate, quickly sidestepping to avoid being shouldered aside by a swaying knot of revellers.

Despite the near constant stench of the ramshackle appendage to the city, he sucked in a deep breath. He felt invigorated. It was well known that he had little time for the attentions of the ladies of the court, not that it halted their plots and their advances. Nonetheless, a man had needs, hungers to be satiated. His tastes lay away from the fawning and the deceits of the palace. Once a year, on this very night, he indulged himself. On this night, on the Feast of Lights, judgement was set aside. Highborn and lowborn alike cavorted in the streets of the city with uncharacteristic abandon. Not even a king was beyond such customs.

He touched the mask once more, ensuring it remained in place. In all likelihood, the mob rushing through the haphazard streets of the Foregate wouldn’t recognise the face of their king, but it paid to be cautious. Despite the occasion and its customs, House Riatin would no doubt relish the opportunity to slip a knife between his ribs, just another reveller to list in the tolls come morning; the Feast of Lights was often a hungry affair.

There would be watchers, he knew. He had of course slipped away through unknown passages. Unknown to most, that was. His manservant, Balor, knew the Sun Palace even better than he. The man was bound to have sent men along his trail, incorrigible worrier that he was. He smiled to himself as he stepped along the streets of hard-packed earth. The watchers would intervene should they be required. Alas, this would be their last night; they had information would could implicate a king, and Balor knew his business well enough.

A shout rang from the crowd. ‘Make way! Make way, you dogs! Wagons coming through on the King’s business! Don’t make me go for my whip!’ The mob glared in the direction of the voice with eyes considering violence. Laman thought it was the threat of the King’s business which stayed their hand, rather than the whip. The crowd dispersed for the wagon and Laman melted into the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder with his subjects, loyal and otherwise.

His annual foray into the Foregate was an opportunity to judge for himself the mood of the city. He had spies and counter-spies on every corner of the city, but to trust completely in such a network was folly. Spies could be bought, or tortured or killed. Words spoken among friends without fear of consequence, that was the sort of truth he sought.

With an ear cocked, he wound his way along soggy streets. He judged the city to be in reasonable shape, though it was clear to him House Riatin had gained favour in the previous year. Well, that would change tonight.

He kept his head ducked, observing surreptitiously as he went. The Feast of Lights presented an annual opportunity for the facade of everyday life to be set aside. Birthright and suchlike was supposedly set aside, yet outside the city proper, mixing with the dregs of society carried a tangible danger. Laman smiled as he saw a noblewoman not quite managing to keep her nose out of the air in her pursuit of a more visceral experience, no doubt. He had to admire the woman's bravery.

The crowd thickened as he moved towards the city walls, a milling throng gathered to observe street performers who hadn't been selected to display their wares in the city proper. Contortionists and jugglers fought for the attention of braying punters, competing with a gleeman whirling in his multi-hued cloak as he regaled the onlookers with a tale from an Age long forgotten, or so he insisted.

He stopped for a moment to take in an impromptu performance depicting war between Andor and Cairhien. A grotesque replica of Morgase Trakand's head bounced upon a pike as soldiers cheered, raising the Banner of the Sun above the Royal Palace in Caemlyn. He smiled as the crowd laughed and jostled. The performance was fanciful of course; any influence in Caemlyn would be gained through more… diplomatic avenues.

The sun had crept below the city walls; past time he made his return to the Sun Palace to prepare for the evening's events. He left the Foregate behind him, making his way through the large blockish gate to enter the city proper. He felt immediately cleaner, even in a less salubrious part of his capital. The buildings were small, squat and in need of repair in places, but they at least were made of stone.

Street parties dotted the main thoroughfares, an altogether more refined affair than those on the other side of the city's walls. Commoner, merchant and noble alike mixed under the watchful eye of the city guard, the usually reserved Cairhienin outlook abandoned even this early in the evening. Mismatched couples lurched towards inns and taverns hand-in-hand and giggling like uncaring youths.

The Feast of Lights was the most profitable time of the year for many within the city. Street sellers hawked their wares with a zeal Laman wished he could bottle and pour into his soldiers and subordinates. The main boulevard here cut a straight line from the Foregate all the way to the Sun Palace, and he could see the evening’s final rays striking the imposing lines of the structure, bathing them in a golden wintry glow. His mouth curved in a secret smile and he quickened his steps; the new year would hold good fortune for Laman and House Damodred.

***

He made for the servants’ entrance where Balor awaited him, face artfully devoid of expression or judgement. The man had of course ensured there were no others to witness the King’s return from the Foregate, but he kept his mask in place regardless. Just another haughty noble wishing for discretion upon arrival.

He was soon in his quarters, soaking in a steaming bathtub, washing away the residue of his earlier venture. Balor went about his business with a smooth, even grace, readying the King’s full feast day regalia. Laman closed his eyes and inhaled the scented steam rising from the tub, feeling the salts invigorating him as he soaked. He emerged, his body red and steaming as he held out his arms for Balor to drape a towelling robe around him.  
‘All is in readiness, Balor?’

‘Of course, Sire.’

‘Very good. This is not a night for surprises.’ Balor had of necessity, been made aware of his plans. Aside from him, only the craftsmen who had undertaken the labour had any knowledge of what was to come. They had been paid very handsomely for their silence, and Balor had ensured the message was appropriately reinforced. ‘Arrange for Lord Dobraine to join me in the vanguard of the hunt tomorrow, if you would. I suspect he and I will have things to discuss.’

Balor nodded his acknowledgment. Dobraine was a terse man, loathe to indulge too deeply in the Great Game. That was well; by sunset Laman would be able to count of a closer relationship with House Taborwin. House Saighan would soon follow and he would be able to bury any challenge to the throne from House Riatin.

Night flooded in through the large square windows in his chambers. The lords and ladies of Cairhien would have begun to arrive by now. As was customary during the Feast of Lights, a contingent of commoners would also mar festivities with their presence. They had all been carefully selected, of course. He stood still as he allowed Balor to first shave him and then dress him, adorning him in black with slashes of red, green and white along the entire length of his robe. He considered himself in the mirror for a moment, nodding in approval. ‘Well done, Balor. Your work is complete for the evening. You may partake of the festivities as you see fit.’

The man bowed from the waist, back straight and perpendicular to the floor. ‘Very kind, Sire.

***

The King’s Address typically took place in the Chamber of the Sun, where festivities would commence immediately upon the King wishing all-comers well for the year ahead. This year would be different. Laman had relocated the King’s Address to the Throne Room. He knew the nobility would find this most irregular, but he intended to cause a stir tonight, and the Throne Room was the only place he could achieve such intentions.

He walked the stark corridors of the Sun Palace in amused silence. The nobility had been gathered in the Throne Room longer than was necessary, no doubt speculating upon the relocation of his Address. He rounded the corner to find the great double doors to the Throne Room ahead of him. The soldiers stationed to either side bowed at a perfect right angle, hands on swords as they opened the doors. Very good.

Hundreds of eyes swung to him as he strode along the central aisle, his boots clicking on the tiled floor. Cairhienin were a match for Aes Sedai when masking their true feelings, unless one knew what to look for. A tightening of the eyes here, a jaw clamped tight there, showed the vexation of some. Covetous gazes from women who should know better. Murderous looks from others. None of it surprised him; the usual lords and ladies exhibiting their usual behaviour.

He stepped upon the dais. Behind him stood a hulking shape draped in silk blankets of red, green and white, the colours of House Damodred. He held his hands out, dark eyes searching out Galldrian Riatin. There the man was, surrounded by his cousins and others from minor houses who would affix themselves to his coat tails. Fools one and all.

‘Lords, ladies and other loyal subjects,’ he began. ‘The fortunes of any nation wax and wane with the passing of years. As so often, those fortunes are tied to the strength of that nation’s ruler. It is irrefutable that since the previous Feast, our great nation has found itself ascending. Trade into and across the Aiel Waste grows, as does our influence in Andor. The other nations recognise the strength of Cairhien, and we must take advantage of this.

‘There are certain things which make us distinct and unique. Our intellect, our political acumen, and our trading capacity make us a jewel among nations, shining like the sun which adorns our flag. A nation like ours requires a ruler with a clear mind to push Cairhien to greater heights.’

He paused, sure he had the room’s attention. This was nothing like a typical King’s Address. The room held its collective breath. ‘In generations past, we were granted a great gift, a boon like no other. Many of you will have felt its touch, I am sure. _Avendoraldela_ was an acknowledgement of the generosity of Cairhien. It has stood for hundreds of years within the Sun Palace as a place of refuge, granting clarity of thought and an inner calm to those in need. Those qualities are things which should be the cornerstone of any King’s reign. I therefore give you the new Throne.’

He spread his arms and stuck his chest out, hearing the soft whisper of the silk sliding from the throne. He savoured the gasps, turning to once again admire the craftmanship of the chair. A blockish structure of the dark wood of the tree, carved with the distinctive trefoil leaves it once bore. The likeness of a rising sun beamed from just above where his head would rest when he sat atop the Throne.

He sought out Galldrian once more and met the man’s eyes across the room. Defiance radiated from him, but in that look, Laman saw that his rival understood the game was up, at least for now.

He raised his hands for silence. ‘Lords, ladies and esteemed guests. It is only left for me to wish you all health and prosperity for the coming year. With that, my Address is at a close. Let the festivities commence.’

Watching the room slowly empty, he moved to sit on the unveiled throne for the first time. As a chair, it was square and unyielding. As a Throne, it was truly fit for a King of Cairhien, even one such as he.

 

 


End file.
